20 Prompt Fluff Challenge
by Jubalii
Summary: In honor of it being 2020, I've decided to do a 20 prompt challenge based off a Tumblr ask challenge I saw recently. (The word limit was only 500, but since these are oneshots and not ask replies I bumped the limit up to 1,000 - 2,000 words.) These 20 Barnlaw oneshots will be released throughout Jan. and Feb. Happy 2020!
1. Making Gingerbread Houses

"I've already said I don't need any help, Zack." Eve scowled, yanking her hair into a loose ponytail as she faced down a tray of gingerbread. "Technically, I should have baked those myself. It's not a fair competition if you've already done half the work."

Her boyfriend quirked a single brow, his scar stretching the arch thinner. A solemn frown touched the corners of his mouth. He didn't say a word; then again, he didn't have to. She knew that expression too well—he thought she'd bitten off more than she could chew. Rather than argue about it, he was content to let her wallow in her shame once defeated.

To be fair, perhaps a gingerbread house competition with the baker's apprentice was a bad idea. In the back of her mind, she still held the image of a sad, lumpy éclair in sadder, lumpier giftwrap. But it was no secret that he'd honed his skills over the past three years, developing a surprising talent for pastry. He could make nearly anything he set his mind to, and it all tasted absolutely _divine_.

Still, she couldn't afford to let his proficiency stop her—she'd already made the boast, and now it she had no choice but to see it through to the bitter end. Ignoring his damning expression, she put her hands on her hips and considered the items on the counter before her. She knew the basics of crafting a gingerbread house: she had to glue the separate pieces together with icing, and then decorate it beautifully using nothing more than candy pieces and her imagination.

Barnham had already taken the liberty of laying out everything they'd need in long rows between their trays. She understood the tubes of icing and the candy pieces, but balked at the wide assortment of tools at her disposal. Why would they need to use knives on precut pieces? And what on earth were _gelatin sheets_?

"We'll start on the count of three," she declared, false bravado fueling each word. Unaffected by her tone, he merely nodded before taking his place across the counter, hands flat on either side of his own tray. She mimicked his stance, aiming a cold, calculated grin up at him. There'd always been something of a competitive streak between them, first as fellow inquisitors and then as friends. It hadn't vanished once they'd started dating; if anything, their intimate relationship only fanned the flames. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are." She could spy the crackling determination burning beneath his nonchalance. _He can't wait to prove me wrong. _

"One." Her nails drummed impatiently on the counter. "Two." She watched his forearms flex beneath rolled sleeves. "Three!" Her index finger jabbed her phone, starting the timer. They had half an hour to build the most acceptable house.

Immediately she grabbed for the icing, picking up the front piece of her house and all but glaring at it as she tried to decide which side was meant to be the outside. Barnham hesitated, rubbing his chin as his observant eyes hovered over each tool at his disposal. She could tell that the gears were already turning in his mind; the house was a puzzle to him, a challenge for him to master.

_Faster_…. The sooner she completed the house frame, the longer she'd have to work out the finer details. Moving as quickly as she dared, she took the icing bag in both hands and willed it to remain steady. There'd be no crooked mortar on her house.

She managed to pipe a relatively straight line down the inner edge, chewing her lower lip in concentration. There, that was the hard part; now it was just a matter of attaching the right-hand piece and— Eve propped up the half-built frame, smiling broadly… only for her smile to fall as quickly as the house.

"You have to hold them together," Barnham noted, not bothering to look up from his own tray. "Until the icing dries."

"Don't help me!" she snapped. She tried again, this time forcing the two pieces together hard enough that the right wall split down the side. "Argh!" Barnham smirked, ducking his head as he reached for a knife. His own house was coming along nicely; he'd already joined up the sides in two parts, propping them against the icing bag to dry while he worked on decorations. _Why didn't I think of that?_

Following his advice—only because it made sense, not because he knew best—she found her house to be relatively stable… relatively. Already it was beginning to lean dangerously to the left; the fact that it had more cracks than earthquake rubble didn't help any. She piped more icing to hold it together from the outside, using nearly the whole bag just to reinforce the shaky foundation.

The end result was… oozy, to say the least. _I'll scrape it off later!_ Shaking her head, she shoved her bangs out of her eyes with the crook of her elbow before attempting to secure the roof. Thankfully it didn't need to be propped up, holding its own while she used the rest of her icing on the eaves. _Alright. Decoration time_. She turned to the bowls, pausing only to see how much time she had left. _Five minutes?!_ Her heart dropped like a rock, landing somewhere in her lower stomach with a clatter.

Maybe her gingerbread man was a minimalist.

Cursing under her breath, she separated out some licorice and strung them along the base of the house. Her gumdrop Christmas lights looked a little odd, especially with a high base of clumped icing to hold them up. Scooping as much oozy mortar from the sides as she dared, she outlined the windowsills and then attempted to glue down a candy cane gate at the end of an admittedly slipshod icing path. Surely there was time to fix it, right? Setting her jaw, she dabbed more icing onto the tray and—

"Time!" Eve stepped back, releasing her held breath in one long _whoosh_. Her house… well, it didn't look so bad! It stood on its own, and being cattycorner to the tray only worked in its favor. Not a single gumdrop had fallen, and if it looked a little bare, so what? There hadn't been enough time! What could possibly be done in a mere half— _Oh._

Her thin bubble of confidence burst at the sight of his house. It stood neatly on its own in the center of the tray, straight and proud and not oozy in the slightest. Using icing and what appeared to be confectioner's sugar, he'd managed to cover the roof in snowy shingles. The windows had lattice made from thin strips of candy cane. Her gingerbread man lay forlorn on the tray, but his had a happy smile as it tended to its gumdrop garden, fenced in by handsome licorice logs.

Politely, he regarded her house with a studious little frown. After a long moment he turned to her, offering the same quirked brow as before—this time, the expression was triumphant. She bristled under the look, crossing her arms and turning away from his smug attitude.

"It's a good house!" she protested, nose in the air. "It's avant-garde."

"Avant-garde?"

"Yes!" She whirled on him, gritting her teeth against the amused tone. "I wouldn't expect you to understand." Her cheeks were burning; clearly the stove had made the kitchen too hot. She could see the laughter bubbling up in him before it escaped, his forehead smoothing and mouth tilting before he let out a sharp bark of genuine mirth.

"S-shut up!" Still laughing, he peppered her face with insolent kisses, ignoring how she tried to twist away. "What does it matter? There's no winner. We don't even have a proper judge," she declared hotly.

"Do we need one?" he whispered, nipping at the shell of her ear. That was the last straw; growling, she pushed him away and stomped from the room, yanking one of his gumdrop vegetables from the tableau out of spite as she passed. The sound of his laughter followed her far down the hall, ringing in her ears.

Chewing violently, she decided that he could have least said "I told you so". It would have hurt her pride far less.


	2. Soft Kisses

In the end, the wine was the true catalyst.

To be fair, the setting had helped to bolster what little courage Eve already possessed. The ex-Inquisitors' favored Friday night table at Rouge's tavern was secluded, facing away from the main bar and separated by a rudimentary half wall. Rouge had once mentioned that the nook was a favorite for meetings; she never specified _what _meetings, and Eve knew better than to ask. Cloistered from the common rabble—which now included tired laborers and off-duty knights in addition to the usual questionable patrons—most people forgot about them entirely.

Still, the wine had been key. Its smooth, dry flavor had thawed her in more ways than one. Vintage didn't matter here, at least with local fare; Rouge had shrugged when she'd asked for the year, leaving the bottle on the edge of the table with an invitation to help herself. She'd taken only one glass, the amount insignificant in comparison to her coworker's three tankards of ale, companions to his heaping plate of the Friday night two-meat special.

The alcohol had been enough to blur the world's edges, candlelight softening until each wick was little more than a fuzzy ball and the tavern's rowdiness dimming to background noise. For the first time in a solid week, she felt herself relaxing as she sipped the last dregs from her glass. She wanted more, but that wasn't the wisest choice: she was admittedly a lightweight. She bluffed well enough to fool most, and made it a rule to never drink in a party of strangers.

Even if she didn't find herself reaching for the bottle, she still felt safe enough in _his _presence to consider a second glass. Walking together to the tavern on Friday was a habit of theirs at this point. Before, they'd used the time to discuss the reconstruction effort and plan the next week's schedule. Somewhere along the way it had shifted into more of a casual outing, a way to unwind before the weekend. Two friends, enjoying a drink together….

_Friends. _As appealing as it had once been, she didn't much like that word anymore. Not when he was involved. _Friends _were content with what they had, and didn't have the audacity to crave more. _Friends _didn't fantasize alone in their beds in the dead of night— stupid, hopelessly desperate. And _friends _certainly didn't kiss their other friends.

But that's what she wanted to happen. She wanted it right now, with the blurry world ignoring them and the heat bubbling in her stomach and his bright smile sending little jolts straight to her heart. It was impossible to lie to herself, or pretend that this was the first time. The thought had been crossing her mind more and more often lately, usually at the worst possible times.

She knew—well, she _thought _he liked her. There were times when he'd give her a particular look, a gentle sideways glance that made her heart stutter in her chest and the blood rush to her face. He never looked at anyone else that way… only her. That meant he wanted to kiss her, right?

And what about the birthday gift? She hadn't been able to forget his baffling behavior, as though her reaction to his present meant the difference between life and death. In her shock, she'd condemned the gift without a second thought, offering a tactless appraisal that would have appalled her poor father. She'd been raised better. The mental excuse that _'Tis only Zacharias _paled when she saw the unguarded hurt in his eyes, and the way he set his jaw to fight anything less than a polite smile.

Despite the gift faux pas, their relationship was none the worse for it. Now, she could no longer deny that she was crushing hard. Since then she'd tried to give him some sort of sign, some notice that what she felt for him went beyond mere friendship. Unfortunately, no one had bothered to teach her how to flirt. She'd tried everything under the sun, yet she couldn't seem to get his attention. Each past attempt had met with misguided failure, leaving her confused and miserable.

Surely he felt more than friendship for her! Otherwise, why would he make such a big fuss over her birthday?

He made her stand for an hour in their office without explanation— and she'd done so.

He reacted with determination at the sight of her dramatic pose— and she'd been grateful for it.

He insisted that her smile was enough— and she'd believed it.

Did he not recognize that her actions were proof of her own feelings? Could he not see that the same statements rang true for her as well? Was he that blind, or… or was she the one mistaken?

The wine's buzz clouded those frantic questions until she no longer felt the need to fret over their answers. It was enough that he was here willingly, that his eyes were on her—_only _her—and that he was grinning, chuckling over some silly remark she'd made. The candlelight smoothed the sharper planes of his face and she found that she couldn't look away from him; his laughter was warm and his eyes were gentle and he was just so damn _sweet_, sweet enough to make both her teeth and heart ache, desperate for him to look at her with that special expression. She wanted to kiss him so badly… she had to kiss him, she'd die if she didn't.

And so she did.

His mouth was soft and surprised against her, shoulder tensing beneath her tentatively placed hand. Normally she found his size to be an annoyance, constantly aware of how they'd once been eye to eye; she'd stopped growing while he kept on, taller and taller until the difference between their heights was ridiculous. But somehow it didn't seem quite so bad _now_, even if she did have to tip her chin up to give him one simple lash-fluttering kiss.

Heart pounding, she pulled away just far enough that his stilted breath tickled her burning cheeks with the faintest hint of ale. She waited for the question the confusion, even—God forbid—the rejection. He stared impassively at her, brows pressing a tiny crease above his nose; only the puzzled tilt of his mouth suggested that something had happened.

_Zack?_

His gaze dropped to her lips before jumping to the table, a flush darkening his cheeks; she watched it spread from his nose to the tips of his ears. A calloused hand covered hers on the table, neither squeezing nor holding but… simply touching, skin to skin. The pad of his thumb traced over the back of her palm, chafing gently.

Had she startled him? For one lone woman to catch the stalwart protector of Labyrinthia off-guard would be a feat in itself. Countless sparring sessions had more than proven that he could disarm her and have her pinned in mere seconds. Still, she didn't want to frighten him off. She reached slowly for him, almost too slowly—or perhaps that was the wine dulling her senses.

Her free hand found the gap in his loose collar, the tip of one finger tracing the length of the necklace he always wore. His skin was silkier than she'd imagined, warm and smooth beneath the edges of his shirt. Eagerly she basked in the sensation, soaking it up and delighting in the subdued shiver that ran through him when she reached the center of his clavicle. It was plenty, more than she could have hoped for, and yet she wasn't the type of girl to be satisfied with _enough_. She'd always find herself reaching for more.

Inquisitive fingers climbed their way up his neck, tracing lines of muscle until her thumb found the scar on his jaw. She smoothed it with affectionate strokes, the echo of some long-past blade catching uneven skin with each pass. The wine wasn't enough to inebriate her, but she could definitely get drunk on this contact. Did hormones drive her to be curious, or was she truly that touch-starved?

Their eyes met as his hand rose to find hers, fingers sliding into the gaps as he peeled it from his jaw. He pressed a chaste kiss to the inside of her wrist, glancing to see her reaction as his breath tickled her pulse. She trembled, the wooden bench creaking beneath her hip as she all but jellified. _Oh my… oh…. _The faintest hint of pressure would burst the fragile membrane holding her together, leaving her to collapse into a messy, quivering puddle on the sticky floorboards. _Please? Please. _

She'd always thought kissing him would be something more along the lines of a makeout, hot and panting with her being pressed onto some hard surface and clutching at whatever part of him she could get the biggest handful of. But this was—it was just so… so _careful_, tender and slow. It was more of a melting than a collapse, slowly sagging against him as noses brushed and breaths mingled with each soft, lazy kiss. If she did pant, it was only on account of him stealing the air from her in increments, long lashes tickling her cheekbones as he nudged her higher still.

His lips were the only thing to touch her face, never his hands. One was still squeezing hers on the table and the other was… where? She'd have to look if she wanted to know, and she wasn't about to take that chance. Opening her eyes meant that the kissing was over, something that she didn't want in the slightest, not when there was a good chance it would never happen again. This was only one perfect snapshot-still moment in the chaos of her life; after all, they were only friends—

Then his forehead rested against hers and the thoughts left her head, eyes opening to see his so near, so intimatelyclose— In a startling burst of clarity she realized that they'd never be _just _friends again, not now. How could it? Nothing could ever be as it was before, not when his hand still covered hers and his taste was on her lips and his voice was whispering a name, _her _name, not milady or miss or anything except those three letters she'd wanted to hear most.

They'd have to talk about it; she knew that. She'd have to get sober and panic, and then he'd panic, and then they'd kiss again so the world would slow and they could think. There'd be time for all that later, when their lips and minds weren't quite as busy. Right now it was enough to explore, to discover, all the time wondering if anyone else in the world had ever been as lucky as she felt tonight.


	3. FaceTime

It was much easier to speak to her through a screen.

He had far better control over the situation when she wasn't there in the flesh. For one, they couldn't be disturbed. He could speak most freely when it was only the two of them, but unfortunately private time was harder and harder to come by now that the Inquisition was dissolved. When they spoke over the phone, he had no worries about being overheard. He was in his bedchamber with the door firmly shut to keep a certain nosy blonde from eavesdropping on his conversation.

More importantly, the Eve on his FaceTime screen only saw what he wanted her to see. She wasn't privy to his nervous feet tapping on the mattress, or the way his hand fisted the sheets to ground himself whenever she did something utterly adorable. And if the sight of her reclined with her chest squashed against a pillow was enough to make his trousers a tight fit, well… she was never the wiser.

Though, to be fair, he was no longer sure if the latter was a blessing or not. After all, if… if she _wanted _to see, then…? It was never a good idea to go down that mental route with his face still in plain view of the phone.

He knew that the same was true for her as well. Their phone time was equal ground, a place where imposed boundaries could blur— to an extent. Often they both ventured farther than they'd ever dare in person, their conversations full of barely disguised innuendo and sickeningly blatant flirting. There was no way in hell that her actions were entirely innocent, no matter how hard he tried to rationalize them as something innocuous. There were nights that she grew tired enough to sink down among the pillows and rest the phone beside her ear, bold enough to openly tell him before pleading softly to _say anything, I don't care what… just talk to me, Zack— _

They may not have been sleeping side by side in a bed, but what they were doing was no less real, even if neither of them cared to admit it. He'd lost count of the times he'd awoken to a candle burning low in its own melted wax, her soft snoring—she couldn't deny it, he'd heard it—still buzzing through the phone's speaker.

Oftentimes he didn't want to hang up. That was the strangest part; even when she was only sleeping, he still wanted to be the one to hear it. He was perfectly happy waking up to a good morning text from her, their typed conversation carrying over into the workday and then breaking only when it was time to return to the bakery.

Even then he called her—or was called—multiple times a week, late enough that evening chores were done and there was nothing left but idle time. Their original half-baked excuses of work inquiries or 'forgotten' instructions had quickly dwindled away after a few weeks of consistent FaceTiming. It seemed now that whenever they _didn't _speak the evening's rhythm was thrown completely off-kilter.

That sort of familiarity had been enough to embolden him to this absurd plan… a plan which he was now regretting with every fibre of his being. He'd thought that being comfortable on the phone would bolster his courage, and it had—at least, until it was time for the actual conversation. He'd even procrastinated for as long as he'd felt comfortable doing, trying to raise the mental stakes in an effort to perform under a deadline. Said deadline was here now, and he was already floundering without having spoken a single word.

He listened idly while she spoke of a television documentary she was watching on her tablet—words that would have meant nothing to him only two short years ago. The modern world was still one of vast confusion, something to be ventured into slowly. He was admittedly content to know only Labyrinthia and its port town on the mainland, but he enjoyed hearing Eve speak of places that, to him, sounded far away: London, Cambridge… Southampton. She'd visited these places before, and wanted to see them again in the future, although she never specified _when_.

So it was up to him to do the specifying, as soon as there was a break in the conversation. _Now. _

"M—Eve." He'd stopped using the polite forerunner to her name ages ago, but whenever he was nervous he still felt the need to add the undesired 'miss'. Thankfully she was tactful enough to ignore his rare slipups, offering a smile that normally helped to calm him. Tonight, however, it only made his heart hammer faster against his ribcage.

"Yes?"

"I've been meaning to ask you something." He opened his mouth to continue, and found that his mind was a blank. _No! I can't screw this up before it begins! _Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Do you—that is—what plans do you have for the upcoming day of your birth?" There, that wasn't so hard! Then again, that hadn't been the part that concerned him most. "Surely you don't intend to spend it working the way you did last year."

"I've worked nearly every birthday that I can remember," she reminded him, a wry twist flavoring her words. "I see no reason why next week will be any different. I suppose the answer to your question is that I don't have any plans at all. To me, it's nothing more than another day… albeit, one with presents involved," she admitted, her voice dropping to a bashful murmur. Pink brushed over the apples of her cheeks as she remembered the previous year's gifts.

_Which one did you like best? _His stomach flipflopped at both the sight and the question. He found her shyness unbearably cute, and had to keep himself in check at all times where it was concerned. Often he was torn between the desire to shelter her from whatever made her blush so, or—when he was the guilty culprit—teasing her until she was bright red and flustered.

"In that case, I was thinking that—" No, no. That sounded far too presumptuous. "I would like for you to—" No, that was even worse! He'd moved from presuming straight to demanding, never a good idea when speaking to her. "That is…." _Just ask the damn question, Zack! _he berated himself, huffing under his breath. "Eve, would you accompany me to the mainland on the day of your birth?"

"The mainland?" She was surprised, her lips parting neatly and brows arching beneath her bangs. "For what? Did Cantabella ask you to fetch something?"

"For—'Tis for the day itself!" he explained, or attempted to. Frustration welled high enough in his throat that he found himself slipping back into Old Labyrinthian. "Or rather, 'tis in honor of that most auspicious of occasions… of your birth. I'd like for us to travel together to… to view…." There was no Old phrase equivalent to what he wished to say. Clutching the phone in both hands, he wavered unsteadily between older and modern speak as he tried desperately to get his meaning across.

"I thought that we might see a film, or… or something of that nature. Whatever you like, of course. 'Tis your day of birth. We would celebrate however you see most fit." There was a long silence and he dared not look at the screen, afraid of what expression he might find there. His eyes stayed glued to a fold in the blanket, mapping the shape and shadows in the linen fabric.

"We." Her voice was tiny again. "Not E-Espella, or… the others."

"A-aye. Of course," he added quickly, "Should you rather wish to spend the day with them, I would not for a moment dare to keep you all to my—"

"So it would be like…" He had to strain to hear her through the phone. "Like a… like a date." His breath caught in his throat. It wasn't _like _a date, but he die before calling her grammar into question at a time like this.

"Yes," he agreed hoarsely. "Much like one… of those." Warily he watched as she curled in on herself, averting her eyes as her free hand crept up her neck and rubbed beneath her jaw. Her pale blush darkened steadily as the seconds ticked by, lips twitching as though they weren't sure whether to frown or smile. He waited with his heart in his throat, unwilling to break the silence, or her concentration.

"Yes." He tensed involuntarily, startled at the conviction behind her answer. Her voice was faint, but only because her hand all but covered her mouth. "Yes, I… I'd like that."

"I'm glad… me too." Their eyes met and he felt… honestly, he felt much like screaming. Never before had he realized so many emotions could be held in a single expression, his own face beginning to smart as her truest, happiest smile shone at him through the screen. A year ago, he'd told her that it was enough to see that smile, and a part of him still felt that way. Still, he wanted to see it in person next time.

Before he could properly react the smile was gone, replaced by something he could only attribute to panic. Her eyes widened as everything from her forehead to her chin turned a bright scarlet.

"E—"

"_Goodnight_!" Without warning she hung up the phone, the dark screen flashing a timestamp. He stared at the home screen blankly, more puzzled than worried. It was far from the first time she'd quit a conversation early, but normally it was her hurrying away from him while trying to both cover her face and watch where she stepped. He'd never had it happen over the phone before… that was new.

Carefully he locked the phone, placing it on the nightstand before silently lowering onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. Only when he was certain of his safety did he start laughing, hugging the pillow to his face as his feet drummed a harsh tempo against the mattress. Constantine whined a complaint at his master's lack of control, but he was beyond caring about anything other than his own joy.

Gleefully he rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest and trapping the pillow against his face. He was very much in danger of suffocation, but he didn't dare let Espella or Mrs. Eclaire hear all the bubbling emotion pouring from him. He'd burst if he tried to hold it in any longer.

"She said yes!" he mumbled to himself, breath hot against the pillowcase. "She knows it's a date and she still said yes!" If he smiled any harder, he'd tear something for sure. Flopping onto his back, he managed to hug both himself and the pillow at the same time, his mind awhirl. He planned a thousand dates at once, countless parallel universes of how next week would play out.

All the while he was entirely unaware of the same being done across town, the ex-High Inquisitor of Labyrinthia nearly rolling out of her own bed as she hopelessly sought to cool her burning face.


	4. Being on Rival Teams

He was supposed to be on _her _team.

"Goose! No? N-no, wait… is it a gardening hose?"

"Espella, sweetheart—" Mr. Cantabella looked worriedly at the easel, tapping the chalk against his chin. "It can't be that bad of a drawing, can it?"

"Honestly, I can't tell what it's supposed to be either," Jean whispered to Mrs. Eclaire. "I know it's not our turn, but—"

"Is it an anaconda?" Espella guessed in vain, wriggling on her seat like a child. She was holding herself to the chair with both hands; Eve had already scolded her once for jumping up in excitement every time she thought she had the right answer. "Oh, oh! A jumper! A jumper sleeve!"

"It's not a—"

"Ah! No cheating!" Mrs. Eclaire pointed triumphantly at him, a sharp grin plumping her round cheeks. "You forfeit if you give your team any clues."

Eve ignored them, letting their arguments filter into background noise as she glared across the table. Barnham was slouched over on one elbow, fork poking at his mostly uneaten slice of cake. He wasn't the biggest fan of coconut, especially coconut cake, but he hadn't complained when being offered a slice. This was Espella's special day, and he was a gentleman—he wouldn't dare make a fuss and ruin her happiness.

Being the Storyteller's daughter, Espella had never been given much of a childhood. Mr. Cantabella had understandably sheltered her after the Great Fire, and for the longest time she'd been shunned by the townspeople. No one dared speak to her for fear of being witch targets. Thankfully those days were behind them, and they were able to have much more fulfilling lives.

This was the first birthday Espella had celebrated with everyone since the trial. On her birthday last year, she'd traveled alone to spend the weekend with Mr. Cantabella at his London home. Eve knew that any private chat Espella had with her father was years overdue; she'd come back to Labyrinthia somber, but content, and their relationship had seemed closer afterwards.

This year, she'd asked Mrs. Eclaire for a birthday party. By her definition, a _proper _birthday party included cake, an abundance of balloons, gifts, and… board games, for some odd reason. Eve had of course been invited; she could hardly say no. And, since it was hard to make equal teams with only five people, Espella had asked Jean Greyearl to join them for the evening. With her subdued nature, Jean was much quieter than the birthday girl, but Eve could tell that she was happy to be included and just as excited, if not more, than Espella.

"Maybe it's a salamander…."

"Espella!"

Eve would never have guessed Pictionary to be the first game Espella chose. Clearly, Professor Layton had rubbed off on her. In a way, Pictionary was like a puzzle… then again, it also relied on players being able to _draw. _Both Espella and her father weren't terrible artists, but something about working under a time limit made them all but inept. Thankfully, Jean was on a stick figure level and Mrs. Eclaire was barely able to manage that; Barnham was singlehandedly carrying their team with his cartoony renditions.

_That's why he should have been on my team. _

Scowling, she stabbed into her cake and chewed morosely while Espella continued to rattle off wild guesses. She didn't understand why she felt so… so _childish_. It's not as though he'd slighted her in any way. They'd drawn slips of paper from a bowl after agreeing that the teams would be odd numbers versus even. It was by chance that he'd been on Mrs. Eclaire's team, and she'd… well, she was stuck with Cantabellas 1 and 2.

It shouldn't have bothered her as much as it did. Was it just that she was used to being part of a unit herself? Did she feel out of her element now? No, that wasn't it: she'd sparred with him one on one before without these strange feelings clouding her thoughts. Maybe her competitive nature had her frustrated? No, they were winning—a scant two point lead, but a lead nonetheless. What was the matter then? Why did she feel so annoyed, when he'd technically done nothing to her?

"Time!"

"A vase!" Arthur rubbed his scarred temple with his free hand. "It's a vase!"

"How is that a vase?" Espella groaned, sinking down in her seat. Eve drowned her out completely as the two began to bicker, boring a hole into the side of Barnham's skull. She could tell that her glare was starting to affect him; his eyes kept flitting between her and the easel, trying to look at her without being too obvious. She could see the question starting to crease his forehead, but he wouldn't grill her before the others. She was safe, for the moment.

"_Eve_!" She cringed away, Espella's voice ringing in her ear.

"What?!"

"I asked if you were okay." Espella frowned. "You barely tried last round. You're not bored, are you? Do you feel ill?"

"I'm fine… I just didn't know the answer." It wasn't a complete lie; in no way did Arthur's sketch even closely resemble a vase. "You were guessing enough for the both of us."

"I really thought it was a garden hose," she lamented around a mouthful of coconut icing. Arthur shook his head, erasing the chalkboard without a word. Eve watched the opposing team rouse themselves for their turn, ire still bubbling low in her stomach.

"Oh, Mr. Barnham!" Jean picked up a card, biting her lip nervously. "If we get this one right, we'll very nearly be tied… my pulse is pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat."

"You'll do fine!" Barnham slung his arm over her shoulders, offering her a sunny grin. "We've won every round you've drawn for. I have the utmost faith in you." Jean returned his smile with a grateful one of her own, holding the card to her chest as she left her chair and took her place at the chalkboard.

A sudden pang stabbed through her heart, sending her straight up in her chair. She shifted uncomfortably, all but slamming her fork down on the table. _What on earth!? _Thankfully, she hadn't been noticed. Everyone's eyes were glued to the board, where Jean was sketching a frightening number of disconnected curly lines.

It was the touch, she realized. When he was relaxed, Barnham had a habit of breaking personal boundaries on accident. It was left over from the garrison days; the knights had no qualms about touching each other. They were always clapping each other on the back, or play fighting during their off-duty hours. It was his way of showing that he was at ease and having a good time, but… he never did that with _her_.

_What?! _She could hardly believe what she was hearing—mentally, at least. _I am not __**jealous**__ of some little girl! _ But she was, and it was the most humiliating thing she'd ever experienced. It was worse than having her private Story read aloud, worse than her overdramatic posing in the office, worse even than—than anything!

It wasn't only Jean. It was the garrison, and Mrs. Eclaire, and Espella and… and everyone else that he freely touched. Why? Why did they get to feel what was denied to her time and time again? Why did he always keep such a polite distance between them? _She _had been his fellow Inquisitor. _She _knew him better than anyone.

For god's sake—he was closer to being her best friend than her own _best friend_, and yet she could barely get him to stand next to her when their arms brushed! The only time he touched her was when they sparred, and even then it felt detached, like he was purposely holding back. Was it because they used to be superior and subordinate? Did he still view her as someone above him, or was it simply that he feared causing her discomfort?

Maybe if he'd been on her team, absorbed in the game, he would have forgotten whatever secret code of conduct he followed. Maybe she could have finally felt what it was like to have him lean on her, squeeze her arm or even pat her hand for a job well done. Even if it had only happened once… wouldn't that have been enough? _No, never, _a part of her protested, but she quelled the voice before it became too loud.

"Ah… puppet!"

"Yes!" Jean smiled, picking up the eraser. "You got it!"

"Good job, dearie!" Mrs. Eclaire beamed, her heavy mitt gently ruffling her teammate's hair as she went to get another slice of cake. Barnham puffed up under the praise, his grin taking on a smug edge as he leaned back in his seat. Eve watched as he slid the pile of cards to her, one brow arching in clear invitation.

"We're catching up," he teased, tapping the top of the deck with one finger before crossing his arms. "You better make this turn count, Miss Eve." _He has no idea anything's wrong. _She swallowed her disappointment, trying to meet his challenge with a determined look and hoping that she got the expression right. She was still a pro at putting on a mask when she needed to.

"You wish. Your team lost the minute you fell behind," she boasted, secretly praying that Espella and her father would manage to get a clue by the time she reached the board. She didn't want to have to eat her words thanks to shoddy teammates. Glancing down at her card, her knees buckled at the word written in plain letters under the category. _Crush. _

_That's it_, she growled to herself, grabbing the chalk and wincing when it squealed across the board. Even if she couldn't do anything about her frustration, she could always draw Barnham's big head _crushed_ under her boot.

Thankfully she wasn't the best artist either. He'd never know.


	5. Sleepover

To be fair: it _was _a very nice bedroom.

Barnham lay cocooned beneath a thick woolen quilt, arms all but pinned at his sides and eyes trained on a dark knot in the wooden rafters. Each breath had his limbs sinking further and further into the featherbed mattress, his head slowly vanishing as the cloudlike pillow pushed up around his ears. The bed was much larger than anything he was used to; even eagle-spread, he couldn't reach any of the edges. He'd been forced to curl up near the righthand edge, afraid that if he made it to the center of the bed he'd never make it back out again.

Eve's servants had closed the curtains when they'd come to bank the fire, but once they'd left him alone he had crept from the bed to open them again. He was used to moonbeams streaming through the skylight above his tiny room at the bakery. With the thick fabric no longer obscuring the panes, the room was as starkly lit as daytime. He could see glittering objects littered about the room, highly breakable and no doubt expensive. The vase on the bedside table alone looked as though it cost more than a year's salary. Its glazed surface begged to be stroked, but he dared not for fear of accidentally breaking it and being forced to pay recompense.

_I could have walked home, _he thought yet again, staring at the glossy sheen of the vase's broadest curve. His mind tumbled thoughts around over and over like autumn leaves stuck in the river's eddies. If there was anyone in Labyrinthia who had no excuse, who should have been at home in bed, it was him. The weather was fine; it was a clear, cloudless night, with more than enough moonlight to illuminate the forest path. And if there were brigands loitering about in the trees, drunk on ale and overconfidence, what did that matter to him? Any criminal stupid enough to try and pickpocket the Leader of the Order would be—quite literally—tossed headfirst into the dungeons. And yet… here he was.

_It's a nice bedroom, _Eve had said, and he'd noticed her fingers starting to fidget with each other as she stood before him in the foyer. _And it's already so late. _He'd already offered the customary apologies, polite arguments against her putting him up for the night. It was late, yes, but he knew the way home. He had a key to the bakery. There was absolutely no reason at all for him to stay. Even so, she'd looked so crestfallen that he'd found himself agreeing. Now he was in one of her guest bedrooms, alone with his thoughts in a too-soft bed.

_I'm such a fool. _Why was it that he was fated to miss every vital clue until he'd already talked himself into a corner? Of course Eve had known there was no reason for him to stay! Her excuses were simply that—excuses! She wanted him to sleep over, but for whatever reason she thought that she couldn't tell him as much. So she instead offered thinly-veiled excuses that held up no better than wet paper.

Why must she always be so… so _vague _with her intentions? He prided himself on being a relatively straightforward man. What was the use of beating about the bush, hoping that others could read between the lines? It was much better to speak of things as they were, in plain terms that anyone could easily understand. But Eve often said one thing when she meant something else entirely.

_I don't know the path well _meant _hold my hand. _

_I suppose we should say goodnight_ meant _kiss me. _

_It's growing late _apparently meant _don't go, stay. _

How was he to understand anything when she never said exactly as she meant? It was enough to drive a man mad! What was worse, each time he got it wrong she gave him one of those sad, sweet frowns that made him feel absolutely terrible. It was as though he'd taken her favorite quill and snapped in two before her very eyes. She gave him no clues, and yet expected him to immediately know what to do and when to do it….

No, that wasn't entirely correct. She gave him clues, but they were clues he had no hope of understanding. Then, when the correct meaning had to be spelled out for him, he was left feeling like a primary schoolchild who'd given the wrong answer to an obvious question. It wasn't fair in the slightest, and there were no signs of it changing anytime soon.

_Bothersome_, he grumbled to himself, trying to roll over and growing frustrated when he merely sank deeper into the bed's plush surface. Perhaps the mattress quality was better than his thin strawtick at the bakery, but at least on that he could move as he pleased! He might as well be trying to roll around on raw dough! Punching his pillow into a harder shape, he dug the point of his chin into one corner and screwed his eyes shut. _And anyway, what does it matter if I stay or go? Seeing as—_

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts and he muttered a curse, fighting his way to an upright position. Squinting, he could see faint candlelight between the cracks in the doorjamb. It had been _late _when he'd retired; now, he was sure that it was somewhere in the gray are between _too late _and _too early_. 

"Enter." Who on earth was bothering him now? Did servants knock before they came in to check the grates? Surely they too were in bed, considering that—The irate thoughts flew from his mind when the door cracked, opening just wide enough for a slender, waiflike figure to slip through.

"I… I wanted to make sure that you were comfortable." Eve drifted to the bedside, one hand shielding the flame as she walked. Her full white—_shift, _his mind supplied, even though he knew it to be a _gown_—brushed the floor, its wide yoke resting on either side of her exposed collarbone. Her hair floated in loose, soft curls around her shoulders; she fairly glowed in the moonlight, looking more like an apparition than anything belonging to the waking world. _Ethereal. _

"I am comfortable." She placed the candlestick on the bedside table, standing beside the bed and rubbing the pad of one thumb over the nail of the other. There was a foreign hesitation, a beat that lasted too long for his liking. He found himself just as confused as he'd been earlier. Did she… want something from him? Was she being a good hostess, or was this another misread signal?

"Are you sure?" The question took him by surprise; he wasn't entirely certain how to answer it. "The bed: it's not too hard, is it?" _Quite the opposite, actually_, he thought wryly. However, his upbringing in the garrison had taught him not to complain about his accommodations; on that subject, he was content to remain silent. She sat on the bedside without invitation, drawing her hair over one shoulder and running her fingers through it nervously. "You're not too hot, are you? Too cold?"

"I assure you, I am well," he insisted, taken aback by her insistent tone. Did she expect him to find fault in her hospitality? "The bed is fine, and these sheets are very warm."

"Right. Of course." She had that look again, the one bordering on disappointment that set his teeth on edge. "B-but the curtains, they forgot to draw them for you. I—"

"I opened them myself. I've grown used to a moonlit bedroom."

"O-oh. I see." Again they fell quiet. Rather than make conversation, he was too busy trying to stay upright; his hip sunk dangerously low into the feathers, and it was throwing him off balance. Eve sat with her hands in her lap, eyes casting about the room as though searching for something to settle on and finding nothing. "I'm sorry." She stood suddenly, brushing the front of her gown with both hands. "I'm keeping you awake. I shouldn't stay."

"Would you like to?" The question left his mouth before he could truly consider it. She stared at him in shock, mouth falling open, and he watched the color spread across her cheeks as her eyes fell to his bare chest. She looked away again after a moment.

"I—that is—I only wanted to make sure that you were—"

"You can stay." He knew it was blunt, rustic and borderline uncouth, but that was all he knew how to be. They'd been raised in different circles, and he found it hard to mimic that sort of higher society. He'd never have her ability to craft sentences with countless layers, so why bother?

"I don't presume to order you around your own home," he stated simply. "But I wasn't asleep, and you clearly weren't either. I thought you might like to stay, but I would no more keep you from your rest than you would me. If you'd like to go, then go. But if you'd like to stay, you're more than welcome to share my bed." To sleep, only to sleep. That other act… that was beyond him, at least right now. Even if they were courting, he was nowhere near ready for all that entailed. But to _sleep_ with her? He'd do so, and gladly.

He half expected another stammered refusal, but she merely licked her fingers and snuffed the candle before crawling beneath the blanket without a word. He waited patiently while she settled, taking a pillow for herself and leaving a modest gap between their bodies, her hand resting lightly on the mattress. Even with moonlight shadowing her face, he could see the pleased smile curling her lips.

_If this is what you wanted, you might as well have said so, _he thought. _'Tis only sensible. _His own hand crawled up from beneath the blanket, and he hesitated only a moment before weaving it around hers. She tensed in surprise, but almost immediately relaxed again, her slight fingers curling over his as she better aligned their palms.

"You're a mystery sometimes." The words came out softer than he'd meant them to, whispering over their linked hands in the dark. "Will I ever figure you out?"

"What?"

"I merely said goodnight."

"No, you didn't." He grinned, burrowing down into the pillow and allowing it to smother his warm chuckle. "Zack?"

"_Goodnight_, Eve."


	6. Marriage

Eve sometimes found it hard to sit still. Most of her life had been about working for a holiday that was always delayed—by her—in favor of more work. But two years of dating a man who could nearly fall asleep on command had taught her to enjoy the art of relaxation. She had finally learned to find peace in existence without a goal in mind, and to reap the benefits of allowing herself a rest.

She even found herself _dozing_, hands resting on her full stomach as the wind rustled the leaves above her head. Sunbeams cast flickers of light on her closed eyelids, warming air perfumed with the scent of red flowers in full bloom. The picnic blanket was cool and soft beneath her, and at her heels Constantine buried his muzzle into its folds with a soft huff. The breeze stirred her bangs, softly bending the rushes that grew along the riverbanks at the bottom of the slope.

"Eve." Eyes firmly shut against the brilliant summer morning, she listened to the blanket scratch against a tree root as her lover shifted. Barnham was stretched out beside her, close enough that she could have touched him without rolling over and yet with a whisper of air between their bodies to protect against the growing heat of the day.

"Yes?" It hadn't been a full three hours since she'd risen from her bed, but already her mind was hazy with the thought of a nap. That, she thought fuzzily, was the one drawback with living a life of ease. There was no doubt about it: idleness was the gateway to laziness.

"Do you ever think about marriage?" The question—seemingly from nowhere—was enough to make her choke on her own breath. She smothered a cough behind clenched teeth, not willing to show how taken aback she was. Still, she couldn't venture an answer until she was certain she could manage an even tone.

"Marriage as a state?" It took all her willpower to keep her eyes closed and expression neutral. "Or the act itself? Which do you mean?"

"I meant you being married." He shifted again and she could see him in her mind's eye, one arm pillowed beneath his head as he watched her. He was always so observant—too observant, even though it had come in handy during interrogations against the more stubborn witches. She wasn't immune from that scrutiny; sometimes he could read her mood better than she knew it herself.

"It… would be a lie to say that I haven't," she ventured slowly. "When I was a child, I sometimes thought about being a wife." Of course, in those days she had no idea what marriage truly meant. It was only a child's game, a facsimile she and Espella indulged in when the weather didn't permit outdoor play. She was the Lady of the House, Espella the child. Usually they included an unnamed father who—much like their real fathers at the time—was always away on urgent business to London.

"And as an adult?"

"I never gave it any serious contemplation." A coil of unease unfurled in her lower stomach at the thought. She frowned, pushing it further down until it was ignorable. "I could never find time to indulge the thought. My duties as High Inquisitor kept me too busy."

The thought was almost laughable. Who would she have married? Her obligation to Project Labyrinthia had left virtually no time to spend in the real world. At her age her father had been at university, networking with peers from all walks of life. She, meanwhile, barely knew half the noble families that claimed acquaintance with House Belduke.

On the other hand, there was also no way she could have ever married someone from Labyrinthia—at least while the project was ongoing. Three-fourths of the town had been living a hypnotized lie, wandering around without any thought at all to who they'd been prior to signing their Labrelum contract. The remaining one-fourth had been too young to consider, or simply weren't the sort of choice she'd make in a spouse.

Opening her eyes, she rolled onto her hip and faced him, cheek pressing into the crook of her elbow. He looked so grave with his brows drawn, a little furrow appearing over his nose and mouth tilted far enough to be crooked, even sideways.

"I hope that wasn't your attempt at a proposal," she said dryly. The attempt at humor worked; his face smoothed, a soft chuckle escaping his parted lips.

"No. I was merely curious." His knee slid between them and she drew her ankle over it, pulling him until his thigh was nearly between hers. He adjusted obligingly, closing the gap until there was only enough room between them for Constantine's curled form.

"Do you ever think about it? About being married." He nodded.

"I think of the future... of the things I wish for my new life."

"Like what?"

"I wish for… for so many things," he sighed. "When we—when Labyrinthia was still as it once was—I wanted only to further my career at the garrison. Back then, my goal was to reach new heights, to prove that I could go beyond anyone's expectations of me. I still want to do that, but I also believe I've found my calling as a baker. I want to open my own bakery, or take over Mrs. Eclaire's in the future. I want to be a husband. A father."

"And I want those for you." She reached out and pressed her palm to the warm, smooth skin of his jaw, running her thumb along his cheekbone. "You have every right to happiness, no matter where you find it."

"I might make the wrong decisions." He looked steadily at her, open and unguarded. "I admit that I find myself overwhelmed by choice. There are many opportunities available to me now, many future paths I can take. But… I am afraid that by choosing one path, I run the risk of obscuring others entirely."

"You can't decide everything at once, Zack." Saying that felt a little hypocritical, but she pressed on. "Life is too unpredictable. No one knows what the future holds, and just because you say something, or write it down, or whatever—that doesn't mean it will come true."

"I know that."

"You might find that those branching paths converge again just out of sight." Her heart ached for him, filled to overflowing with the most bittersweet sort of love. It hurt to see him, the steadfast knight she'd come to rely on, torn between what might have been and what would be.

The whole city admired him, and it was easy to put him on a pedestal. She'd been guilty of doing that before, expecting him to solve a puzzle—her puzzle—when it had too many missing pieces. But even he could be frightened, nervous of the future. He was a man, nothing more: just a man looking for direction the same as everyone else.

"We spent _years_ in stasis, Zack." She watched her thumb smooth the faint lines beneath his eye. "Isn't it time to start walking?" He nodded again, one hand holding hers in place long enough to brush his lips against the heel of her palm. "Then… when you're ready, you must take the first steps."

"When _we _are ready… when the time is right for us both… I want to marry you." Her heart stuttered at the declaration, although it wasn't as though she hadn't known—of course it would be her—

"When the time is right," she agreed, breath hitching at the thought. When would that time come? There was no real way to know, no future date blazing on the horizon. It would just happen, and when it did…. "That's still not a proposal, though."

"No." He leaned forward, offering a chaste kiss that left her lashes fluttering.

"It is a promise."


	7. Blushing

"'Tis only the cold."

It _was _cold; that much was certain. His men's breath hung in the air, ghosts following them as they hurried to and fro across the clearing. Bundled head to boots in thick robes, the Court Illustrator squatted beside a metre-wide patch of ice, peering intently at the pattern of muddy cracks along its surface. Garrison horses snorted hot puffs of air, pawing nervously at the ground around the forest perimeter. As with all animals, they could somehow sense that witchcraft had been performed, and recently.

Sir Barnham trailed a customary two steps behind the High Inquisitor, watching as she carefully looked over the crime scene in the clearing. Her pale skin, as flawless as the snow clinging to the boughs overhead, practically shone in the gray morning light. Everything from the apples of her cheeks to the tip of her nose was flushed with a rosy hue, rivaling the pink lips frowning beneath.

It was odd to see her so… colored, at least this time of year. Sweating in a relentless summer heatwave was one thing, but in midwinter the sun could not permeate the dense layer of overcast clouds hanging low on the Labyrinthian horizon. She was so affected that, when helping her from her horse, he'd found himself inquiring after her health. The High Inquisitor was a stubborn—no, a _tenacious _woman—and could hardly be stopped once she set her mind to something. He wouldn't be at all surprised to find her glowing with fever at a fresh crime scene.

However, she'd curtly informed him that it was weather, not illness, that ruddied her cheeks. It made sense; riding a horse in these temperatures would chafe even the coarsest skin. To make matters worse, she was shockingly underdressed. Normally she wouldn't be seen outside in icy weather without her fur-lined cloak, thick leather gloves, and a scarf to protect her neck and ears.

A cloak had been thrown around her shoulders, but it was a garment he'd never seen before. Made entirely of a thin black fabric, it looked about as useful against a stiff breeze as a wet paper sack. It was a bizarre choice for an winter's day, and he found that he couldn't ignore it. He was curious to a fault; when combined with his observant nature, it was hard to let peculiarities lie unquestioned.

She had not left her home prepared for the weather—why? When the alarm was raised, she would have—should have—prepared for what might have been a full day outdoors. It was the Inquisition's duty to appear wherever crimes of witchcraft were committed, and the ensuing investigations sometimes lasted hours while they pursued the fleeing witch. Perhaps she had been in a hurry, unwilling to wait while her servants fetched the proper overclothes?

He would have been able to understand such haste. For what might have been a standard crime, there was an unusual anomaly that turned this case on its head: two of the witch's victims had been burnt beyond recovery… but one yet lived. The witch had knocked the poor lad senseless and had either assumed him dead, or meant for him to die of exposure. There was no way of knowing which was the truth, and besides—witches were vile creatures that knew neither shame nor censure. Who was he to ponder the machinations of a wicked heart?

Anyway, he had no time to idle. There would be time enough later to triumph over the Inquisition's exceeding luck… and admire the color in the High Inquisitor's cheeks. She was speaking to him now, and it was his duty to assist her at the crime scene in any way he could. It was a task he took seriously; no one would find _him _lacking. The High Inquisitor needed someone who's judgment and honest opinion she could rely on, and he was the one for the job. She'd said as much before when in one of her good moods.

"Well, Sir Barnham," she said, arms tucked into the thin cloak as she surveyed the scene laid out before them. "What do you make of all this?" He knew that she'd already formed her own ideas, but still valued his insight. Between the two of them, they'd never lost a case.

"We're looking for a witch who can cast Ignaize," he stated with the utmost certainty. "The fire was well contained. Had it been a larger spell, such as Granwyrm, I would have expected to see snow melted from the trees. As it was, the snow melted around the witch, forming this circle. The remaining water refroze, becoming patches of ice." The High Inquisitor nodded, silently gesturing for him to continue.

"Two of the victims were burnt to ashes. We could recover nothing of them, save what was… caught in the slush," he admitted with a wince. "We are still waiting on identification."

"Were there any witnesses to the crime?"

"One, another victim who—for whatever reason—was not burnt with the others. One of the squires recognized him as a former neighbor, a farmer's son. The size and direction of his footprints suggest that he was taking a shortcut home. 'Tis my belief that he stumbled across the witch after the other two victims were burned."

"There are no patrols that venture this deep into the forest. Calling for help would not have been an option. He was found beneath that tree," he mentioned, pointing to a patch of disturbed snow beneath an oak. "The pattern of footprints around the area suggest a battle. He may have been trying to secure the witch's Talea Magica. Somehow he was knocked unconscious, either by spell or by assault."

"He's lucky he hadn't frozen to death," she remarked, crossing her arms.

"Aye. A knight patrolling the uphill path saw smoke and came to investigate. It seems that a nearby bush caught flame during the crime, thank the Teller."

"Yes, I'm sure he had much to do with it," she muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Where is this farmer's son now?"

"He is at the alchemist's home. I received word not long ago that he is expected to make a full recovery."

"Tell me: there's no way he could have slipped on the ice? A hard fall might have been enough to knock him unconscious."

"At the time, the water would have been… water. In these temperatures, the puddles would have taken at least an hour to freeze over." He blinked at her curiously. "In any case, the position of the body and the surrounding footprints were assurance enough."

"Oh, yes." She scanned the tree line, staring at nothing in particular. He watched patiently, brow furrowing at her behavior. The High Inquisitor seemed… unfocused, somehow. Distracted. It was not at all like her to ask questions with such obvious answers.

"Lady Darklaw… you arewell, are you not?" He knew that she didn't enjoy having to give answers more than once, but this time he was willing to make an exception and risk her ire. She was not acting like herself, though he could not easily say just _how _she was altered.

"I am well," she insisted, turning away quickly. She circled the patch of ice and dirt, drawing the cloak closer around her arms and stepping quickly, her breath coming in fast puffs of steam. _That cloak… _was it the problem? He'd never known her to be distracted at a crime scene, but that garment was truly thin enough to be almost translucent. It was not a midwinter outfit. Was he sensing not distraction, but discomfort?

"If you please." He stepped forward, hoping to intercept her path as she began the trek back towards her horse. "Take my cloak. It should keep you warm on the ride back."

He fingered the reddish-brown fur lining the hem of the rich emerald fabric. Layer upon layer of padding and armor kept the cold from seeping into his core. The rest did little more than keep rain and snow off his head. Lending his cloak to her would only benefit them both. She said nothing, and he quickly bridged the gap between them, one hand already loosening the clasp at his neck.

"Here—"

"It would not do." He paused mid-step, taken aback. "It would not do," she repeated quickly, "for the High Inquisitor to be seen wearing the colors of the Order." Her eyes darted from the clasp to his face and then away, lips thinning into a straight line as she all but glared at the crime scene. Was the offer an affront? He had thought it nothing more than an act of kindness. Had he mistakenly offended her?

Wilting internally, he tried to decide whether or not an apology was in order. As he faltered, he saw the same rich pink hue as before slowly spread over her cheeks; it met at the bridge of her nose, softening her expression. _She said…. _She had claimed it to be the cold, but there was no wind blowing to chap her face. Nothing around them had changed to cause such a bloom of color, except for— him?

_Is that… is she…? _

"But…" Her next words came out in a rush. "I do thank you for the offer." His eyes moved at the same time as hers, meeting in the middle. His heart gave a particular lurch, a feeling he hadn't acknowledged in what felt like a lifetime. He froze when he saw something glimmer deep in her irises, an answering emotion that set his own face alight. He hoped—prayed—that his cheeks were already dark from the cold, that she didn't catch him in this lapse of self-control.

If she noticed, she said nothing of it. By the time he came to his sense she was mounting her horse, reins in hand.

"I want to know the moment the witness wakes," she ordered, her voice carrying loud enough that a few knights paused in their duties to listen. "He will be safe enough with the alchemist, but send a regiment to escort him to the Courthouse when he's able to be moved." He nodded, saluting her with one fist against his still-hammering chest.

"By your orders," he vowed. "I'll deploy a unit at once." He did not dare lift his eyes, feeling the danger of catching her gaze. Whatever had sparked between them was something unusual, perhaps a byproduct of lingering magic. It would not do to dwell upon it… or to tempt fate. She seemed to have the same thought, her eyes focused on a fixed point somewhere above his helm.

"And… Sir Barnham?" She turned her horse, black cloak billowing to meld with the it's dark hide. "Do catch that witch." With a snap of the reins, she clicked her tongue and was off, trotting hurriedly in the direction of the marketplace.

"Aye, Lady Darklaw."


	8. Caring During An Illness

'Twas only fair.

After all, wasn't he always the one to be taking care of her? He showered her in baked goods on a weekly basis; every time he learned something new, she was sure to get a basket of it as soon as he perfected the technique. He fetched things from high shelves for her. He fussed over her being too hot in summer and too cold in winter. And, should she be having a bad day, he was sure to turn up on her doorstep with a warm smile.

Every time she spoke out against such spoiling behavior, he shooed the protests away with a frown. _'Tis my duty as your boyfriend, _he kept assuring her. _On my honor, I will make sure you're well and content. _Now she had a chance to return the favor, and no one in Labyrinthia was going to stop her.

Well… no one save for Mrs. Eclaire.

"Do you not hearme, child? I'm telling you, he's got 'flu!" Despite her small statue, the stout woman seemed to fill the entire threshold as she braced against the doorjamb, rolling pin in hand—er, mitt. "No one steps a foot into my bakery without my say-so, and I'm saying no. We're on quarantine, young lady."

"I'm a physician's daughter," Eve argued. "I know how to protect myself. Besides, he's my boyfriend. He needs me."

"What he _needs _is plenty of rest."

"But—"

"Not another word out of you!" One handle of the rolling pin jabbed at Eve's midsection in an unskilled lunge. "Go on, get! Shoo!" With a flap of the baker's apron she was waved off, backing out of the doorway and left standing on the street in defeat… at least temporarily. With a dramatic huff, she turned on her heel and made a show of stomping back in the direction of the market gate, feeling Mrs. Eclaire's gaze on her as she rounded the corner.

As soon as she was out of sight she circled around, taking the back roads. For once, she found herself thankful that Labyrinthia's streets were little better than expanding rings of cart paths. She idled by the fishmonger's stall, texting Espella one-handed before sneaking quickly across the lane. After that, it was too easy to duck down the back alley separating the shops from a crooked row of townhomes.

Sliding along the rough brick wall, she adjusted the parcel in her hands before rapping a quick staccato against the bakery's back door. It opened, Espella's peaked, worried face peering through the gap.

"You're going to get me into so much trouble!" she wailed in a hushed whisper. "Aunt Patty is going to ground me for life when she finds out."

"She won't find out." Eve shouldered her way in, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the darkened hallway. "Besides, you're eighteen. Isn't that a little old to be grounded?"

"That's what you think." Espella shuffled along the corridor, ducking to avoid the bottom of the staircase as she made her way to the front shop. "Just don't stay long, okay?"

"I'll stay as long as I need to," she retorted, but the girl was already through the door and into the bakery proper. Eve scowled after her; if Mrs. Eclaire sensed something wrong, it wouldn't be for lack of care on _her _part. Espella's guilty behavior would be more than enough.

Slipping the sandals from her feet, she silently crept up the staircase, ears straining for any telltale creaks from the aged wood. The upper landing was deserted, all doors firmly shut and lights dimmed. A pail of soapy water and a scrub brush suggested that the healthy were doing their best to ensure against the spread of whatever plagued their housemate. Ammonia burned her eyes as she tiptoed past the other bedrooms, headed for the one at the far end of the landing.

Gently easing the door open, she found the lone bed's occupant reduced to a featureless mass buried beneath a heap of blankets. Constantine lay at the foot of the bed, curled into a tiny ball; he lifted his head at the sound of squeaky hinges, tail thumping against the coverlet when he saw it to be one of his favorite people.

Holding a finger to her lips, she scratched beneath the dog's chin before unloading her parcel on the empty desk. She'd brought him a bouquet of fresh wildflowers to liven up the sickroom, and a novel to read to him when he woke. On the way to the bakery she'd stopped at the confectioner's for a small sack of peppermints guaranteed to settle even the queasiest stomach, and her chefs had cooked a delicious soup for him to drink.

These items, indicative of her bedside manner, had admittedly been modeled off memories of her late father. Warm broth, peppermints, a gentle voice reading to her while she was confined to her bed. When she needed to sleep it had been technical manuals or academic papers, but other times he had regaled her feverish mind with fairy tales and astronomy books. Those were… not _good _times, per se, but they were some of the better memories of her childhood. At least back then he'd still made time for her….

_Just like I'll make time for Zack now, _she thought firmly, shaking the bittersweet memories from her mind to focus on the task at hand. She rolled up her sleeves, tightening the ribbons at her cuffs so they wouldn't slip down in her ministrations. Fully prepared, she then turned to the bed and its ailing occupant. _Alright… what now? _

"First things first," she murmured to Constantine, who watched with bright, beady eyes. "That cloth needs freshening." She hoisted the bowl and pitcher from their stand with a muffled grunt, carrying it to the bedside table. The cloth was dry enough to hold its shape when she peeled it from his forehead. Her motions woke her patient from his fitful doze; he stirred as she carefully drenched the cloth, unfolding and refolding it neatly before wringing out the excess water.

"Eve?" His throat was raspy enough to add a grating note to the syllable.

"Shh." She smoothed the sweat-dampened bangs from his hair before placing the cloth back over his forehead. His brows furrowed, long lashes fluttering as he woke fully.

"You sho—" He was forced to pause, lips pressed firmly shut as he coughed deep in his chest. He held the blanket to his mouth, hesitating before trying to finish his sentence. "You shouldn't be here. I've taken ill."

"That's precisely why I'm here," she said sweetly, fluffing the pillow around his head and tucking the blankets neatly around his chest. He shivered, burrowing deeper into their warmth. "I'm going to take care of you."

"You're going to be sick next," he corrected her weakly, parroting Mrs. Eclaire's earlier arguments.

"Don't worry about that." She glared sternly at him. "This is my duty; I'm your girlfriend. Now, you relax while I get your room in better shape." He didn't reply, but tired eyes followed her as she moved around the room. "I've brought you some flowers from Ms. Kira—here, let's open the window while we're at it," she said, unhooking the latch and throwing open the casement. "The fresh air will do you good. Let me know if you get cold and I'll find another quilt."

"Alright." The quick compliance left her wincing; that wasn't a good sign at all. She was in danger of potentially falling ill, and yet he was letting her have her way? That could only mean one thing: he wasn't even feeling well enough to argue. _My poor sick knight, _she cooed to herself, smiling sympathetically as she reached for the container of soup.

"Look what I have," she prompted, lifting it for him to see. "This will get you on your feet in no time." She took the lid from the container, inhaling with a sigh of pleasure as the thick, salty scent of chicken stock filled the room. "See? Doesn't it smell deli—"

Eve stopped short at the sight of his face. She'd heard the expression 'looking green' before, but this was the first time she'd seen it in action. He _did _look a little green… right before he rolled to the side of the bed and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach into a bucket. Her own stomach recoiled and she screwed her eyes shut, setting her jaw against an answering wave of nausea. _Oh, god… he's __**sick**__, _she thought, suddenly realizing exactly what all that entailed.

Constantine leapt to his feet, barking at the closed door as his master managed to heave his weight back over the edge and collapse to the pillow. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm with a groan.

"Zack!" Her concern for him overrode her disgust; she quickly replaced the container's lid before hurrying to him. Keeping her eyes carefully averted from the bucket, she found another cloth and dabbed at his face until he took it from her with a sigh. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize your stomach was that upset. I have peppermints if you'd like—"

"…sworn he'd be asleep longer." She froze at the sound of Mrs. Eclaire's voice on the landing. "Poor dear," she tutted, voice rising as she booted the door open with one hip. A tablespoon and a bottle of tonic were in her ungloved hands. "It's time enough for your next dose, I suppose. I don't know whatwe'll do if you can't hold anything do—" She halted, jaw dropping at the sight of Eve at his bedside.

"I—you—And just _what _do you think you're doing here!?" A number of reactions ran through her mind, each worse than the last. Finally she pointed to the bottle, holding out her hands expectantly.

"Is that his medicine?" she asked briskly. "Here, I'll do that."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mrs. Eclaire swore, tongue working in her cheek. "Ooh, Espella… I'm going to give that girl such a talking to! And you! You might as well kiss him while you're at it! In all my years, I've never seen a girl so hellbent on catching her death—"

"Stubborn," Barnham croaked. The baker fell silent, mouth pursed before surrendering tonic and spoon without a fight.

"Well… go on, give me that while you're at it," she grumbled, pointing to the bucket. "Yes, you!" she snapped when Eve hesitated. "You want to care for a sick man? You'll care for him, all right! You're welcome to the entire experience!" Barnham coughed again, breath rattling, and she shook her head.

"Come along, chop chop—_some of us_ are trying to limit our exposure."


	9. Photo Booth

"A… portrait booth?"

Barnham wasn't entirely unfamiliar with photographs. It was true that he'd spent a large portion of his life believing that professional portraits were the only way to preserve a likeness. He now knew that to be false. Tourists to Labyrinthia enjoyed taking photos, both with their phones and plastic disposable cameras. He'd even learned about the perplexing term _selfie _just a few short weeks after Project Labyrinthia's dissolution.

However, being familiar with the term and actually utilizing it were two very different things. Even though months had passed since the final witch trial, he hadn't personally taken a single photo. Of course, he'd sat for portraits before; a professional one hung in the garrison's main hall, and another had been commissioned for his induction into the Inquisition. He'd also had less formal sketches made of himself and friends, even of his dog. But the only photos he was aware of had all been taken by tourists, mostly of the (now entirely ceremonial) Parade. He'd never had to sit for one of _those_.

Now Eve was all but yanking him towards a small structure on a corner of the street, even though The Story—Mr. Cantabella was already expecting them at Labrelum H.Q. He was astounded, having never known her as one to shirk her duties. Then again, he'd noticed that she'd allowed herself to relax on this voyage to the mainland. When Mr. Cantabella had announced he'd had no need of them today Eve had seemed all too eager to play tour guide, dragging him around the parts of London familiar to her.

Not that there was anything wrong with it—he enjoyed seeing her behaving this way. This was a side of her that he'd had precious few interactions with, and each time left him hungry for more. When she loosened up, the heavy burden Lady Darklaw carried seemed to no longer affect her as badly; she seemed more… innocent, smiles and laughter. Innocent enough to miss the way he flushed whenever her tiny fingers curled around his, grabbing his hand or his arm and pulling him towards whatever destination she'd picked out next.

Several times over the course of the day she'd commented that they should visit certain arthouses, museum exhibits she wished to see, cafés whose reviews were the talk of the town—at least, on the mysterious Internet. All things that suggested she was planning additional outings, return trips packed with all sorts of interesting things to do. The thought made his heart feel odd, light and fluttering in his chest.

Eve spoke of _we, us_, but he was certain she meant they'd be in the accompaniment of Espella, perhaps a few other companions. He wouldn't have protested the idea of a friendly outing: it was nice to feel included in her plans. But a part of him hoped with a strange, aching desperation that she meant him and _only _him. Alone, together, the way they were now.

They'd come to be aids to Mr. Cantabella, and yet they'd barely set foot in Labrelum's main office the entire weekend. Halfway through the trip he'd realized that he was less Arthur's companion and more hers; he'd been invited to keep her company, although any of her other friends could have easily done the same. Then again, he couldn't exactly recall her favoring anyone's presence in particular. True, she was working on rekindling her friendship with Espella, but most of—no, nearly every time she found herself alone, she had some excuse to be at his side.

He was honored, for it meant that she counted him as a friend. The thought of being her friend was a pleasant one, and it was true that he found her society much more tolerable than others in Labyrinthia. Why was it, then, that the thought was accompanied by a small, sinking disappointment in the pit of his stomach? Was friendship somehow… not enough?

"It'll be a nice memento of your first trip to London," she urged, tugging him gently by the sleeve as she made a beeline for the booth. "Besides, I just realized that we don't have any pictures of the two of us." _The two of us? _"We're going to remedy that right now."

The booth was split in two, with one side hollow and the other solid. A curtain hung across the empty doorway; large letters plastered on each side of the four walls proclaimed "PHOTOS: 4 POSES, 3 MINUTES, £3". He deferred to her lead, eyeing the booth cautiously as she motioned for him to step inside ahead of her.

Past the curtain he found himself in an unsurprisingly cramped space with barely enough room to circle; he had to duck to avoid smacking his skull against the low ceiling. One wall was home to a brightly flashing screen. The other had been carved into a crude bench. He took his seat on the cold plastic with a wince, his shoulders nearly spanning the small area's breadth. Eve followed, digging in her wallet for the paper money and then feeing it into a slot below the screen.

"Welcome!" A mechanized voice called out. The screen came to life, offering what appeared to be some sort of template. Eve tried to fit beside him on the bench, finding it hard when he took up most of the space by default. He tried to fold himself more tightly, one leg awkwardly sticking below the curtain as he pushed his spine flush against the nearest corner. She wedged herself into the tiny gap he created, wallet crushed between her knees.

"There'll be a countdown before the camera flash, so you'll have to be ready," she instructed, choosing a template at random. The screen flickered and he saw himself, half his forehead cut from the frame thanks to his height. "Bend down." He obeyed silently, trying to duck down to her level without breaching her personal space. She tugged him down further, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as she lined up their cheekbones. "There."

He gulped, trying to hold the awkward angle for as long as he could despite his hips already starting to ache in protest. His heart was pounding, face burning each time her soft, cool cheek brushed against his. He couldn't help but notice each time she wiggled on the seat; their legs were pressed together from hipbone to kneecap.

"Get ready!" the robotic voice chirruped, and large numbers began to countdown on the screen. "Don't forget to pose!" He stared at the screen, offering what he hoped was a genuine expression. At the last moment Eve leaned her temple against his, flashing a beautiful smile that sent his heart racing. A blinding light filled the booth, accompanied by the sound of what he assumed was a camera.

"Was that it?" He turned to her, assuming a more natural position as he blinked the light from his eyes.

"No!" She waved at the screen, where he could see numbers counting down again. _But didn't we just…? _"There's three more pose—" _Flash. _Again he was blinded, the dark imprint of her incredulous face floating before his dazzled eyes. Panic ran through him as he turned back to the screen, which had restarted its countdown yet again.

"Can we not pause this? What sort of useless contraption—" _Flash. _He was certain his mouth was hanging open mid-word, but there was no way to check… and no time. Already the screen was flashing down the final set of numbers.

His heart gave a nasty lurch. This was turning into a fiasco, but perhaps he could still salvage this final photo. He grabbed Eve without thinking, dragging her halfway onto his lap as he pressed their cheeks together and offered the biggest, brightest grin he could muster. There was a sharp intake of breath but to his relief she didn't fight him, nails biting into his forearm as she tried to keep her balance.

_Flash._

"Please exit the booth and collect your photos," the voice happily ordered. Eve untangled herself from his arms without a word, grabbing her wallet as she stumbled through the curtains and back into the gray London afternoon. He followed, wilting more and more by the second. These were their first photos together. They'd meant something to her, and he'd gone and ruined it with ill-timed unpreparedness. _I'm so unused to this modern age_, he lamented, wracking his brain for a way to make amends.

"M-Miss Eve," he tried, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. "I—that is, I can repay the money—" She didn't look at him, staring intently at a slot in the side of the booth. As he watched, a sheet of paper slid smoothly from the slot into a plastic receptacle. She picked up the sheet, turning it over to show that there were two identical sets of photos, split down the middle with a perforated edge. He glanced at them over her shoulder, grimacing at the array.

The first one was by far the best, for obvious reasons: they were both prepared, and it merely looked the part of a standard, extremely high quality portrait. The second however, was an immediate downgrade. He looked confused, barely a breath between them as she gazed directly into his eyes. Because she'd been trying to make him turn back, her arm was nothing more than a shapeless blur in the bottom corner of the frame.

Just as he'd feared, his mouth was agape in the third. However, that was not what surprised him about the picture. He stared at it for a long moment, taken aback by his own expression. He'd never seen his brows creased in that manner before, a spark of annoyance blazing in his eyes. Without context, it seemed that he was speaking to some unseen portrait master. He'd never known himself to make such expressions before, but… this was him. This was what others saw when they looked at him, spoke to him. The thought was a little unnerving.

The fourth one was… well…. His eyes were screwed shut, nose crinkled with the effort of his beaming smile. His arms clutched her to his side, cheeks smushed together. Eve wasn't even looking at the camera. Her eyes were focused on him, lips parted in a startled smile and… was she _blushing_? No, that had to be a trick of the light; the flash must have highlighted her skin in a different way when placed beside his own darker tones.

"I… I sincerely apologize." She finally looked up at him, and he was amazed to see confusion, not anger.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"What for? I… they're ruined… these are not—" To his immense relief, she chuckled.

"It's nothing formal," she replied, waving off his stammered explanation. "It's only a photo booth. They're not meant to look professional." He felt his muscles loosen, letting out a sigh of relief.

"So they're not… terrible?"

"Not at all! They're perfect." He smiled, heart skipping a beat. Fortune must be smiling upon him today—she liked them! Suddenly she cleared her throat, more interested in the photos than him. "A-anyway, there's a strip for each of us, so… here's your half. Don't lose them."

"Oh, no. I'll treasure them always."

"You—! I mean… I suppose I will as well…" She was blushing again, or perhaps the sun had gathered enough strength to push through the overcast skies. It was hard to say which, seeing as she turned on her heel, grabbing his hand and yanking him in the direction of Labrelum without ceremony.

"We're running late," she said over her shoulder, as though idling at a photo booth hadn't been her idea in the first place. "We need to hurry back." Still smiling, he picked up the pace and obediently trailed after her, their first photos safely in hand.


	10. Early Morning Cuddles

When the news was out that the two ex-Inquisitors of Labyrinthia were _an item_, it seemed that everyone and their mother (sometimes literally) had to offer some trade secret on the fine art of dating. Most of it was innocent, bred only from a desire to help; she'd learned quickly that just because advice was unasked for didn't mean it was automatically bad. Then again, some—Foxy's very hands-on demonstration of Mistress/slave relationships, for example—were more than she was willing to put up with from the townsfolk.

Later on there were others who, via hushed whispers over fences and "you know what I'm talking about" expressions, tried to fill in the gaps of her more… intimateknowledge. This advice was apparently taken far more seriously than the other; a pair of housewives nearly came to blows when they disagreed over whether or not she should shave certain areas.

Ms. Primstone, eager to show off her own knowledge, reminded her that neglecting to keep _you-know-whats _in the bedside table would lead to nothing but trouble. Rouge all but threatened to give her some pointers, using a wine bottle for reference. And Jean—shy, sweet little Jean—somehow managed to slip _The Guide to Getting It On _into a returned stack of the late Sir Belduke's medical texts. It was a saving grace that her father had always written his name on the inside cover of books he owned, and even more of a miracle that Jean hadn't remembered to forge his signature.

With all this unwarranted advice, why was it that not one single person had bothered telling her what to do the _morning after_!?

She was a hostage in her own bed, completely naked beneath the blankets with an arm around her stomach and a wall of heat at her back. The bedcurtains hadn't been drawn and sunlight beamed right into her eyes, heating her even more; her hair was damp against the back of her neck, body aching and mascara most likely smudged around her eyelids. Even so, it was… cozy, somehow—acceptable, even. But her stomach was mere moments away from growling and her throat was on fire, desperate for water.

The only thing she could be thankful for was the lack of a hangover. She had been careful, drinking only enough for the courage to nod eagerly when he not-so-subtly suggested going upstairs. _It's all his fault, _she thought irritably. _We weren't even supposed to get to this point. We had a __**plan**__. _Half a notebook had been dedicated to their "roadmap to intimacy", labeling out both a strict order and timeframe for everything to happen. Nothing was to be rushed, for both their sakes.

But last night… it hadn't felt rushed at all. It had felt _right_, and she'd dozed off in his arms without a second thought. Apparently that was where she'd stayed, considering he had her confined in an iron grip. She felt like a child's stuffed animal. _How am I supposed to get out? _Did she just… wake him up? Wouldn't that be rude? And what was she supposed to say when he—

"Good morning." His voice was raspy with sleep, arm tightening gently as he shifted next to her. She held her breath, heart beating fast at the sound. He let out a soft, sleepy groan, burrowing down until he found her shoulder. He kissed it lightly through her hair. "Eve."

"G-good morning," she managed, her own voice slightly breathless. "How did you know I was awake?" She felt him smile against her skin.

"You stopped snoring."

"I don't snore." She wiggled, giving him a split-second to move out of the way before twisting around in his grasp.

"You do." He smiled at her, eyelids still heavy with sleep. "Light, soft ones."

"That's called breathing." His hair shone red-gold in the sunlight, looking more like a fire than the glowing ashes in the hearth. She reached up and brushed the bangs from his forehead, running her fingers through the thick silken strands. He leaned into the touch, eyes drifting shut.

"If you say so." He rested his palm against her stomach, spreading his fingers thoughtfully before tracing idle patterns from hip to hip. She shivered, a warmth seeping through her from toes to scalp. "Oh, that's right…" He smirked, leaning forward to nip teasingly at her ear. "We found out just how ticklish you are, didn't we?"

"It's not that," she protested, squirming away. "Behave."

"You're cute when you pout."

"I'm not—" He cut her off with a kiss, pausing only to untangle his hand from the blanket and cup her cheek. She melted against him, sliding her arms around his neck with a blissful sigh. _I suppose I can handle being teased a little, if this is the outcome_. "See?" she mumbled, tipping her chin as he moved down to her neck. "You could be using that smart mouth for much better things." He grinned, wet teeth against her pulse. "_Behave_!"

"You're right, as always. But," he added, kissing both cheekbones, "I'm not doing anything until I get something to eat. My stomach's been eating itself this past half-hour."

"Why didn't you get up before now?" she asked, incredulous. "You didn't need my permission to ring for breakfast."

"I know. It's only… you were sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to accidentally wake you." He'd spent the night with her before, and knew firsthand how even the softest sound could awake her from an already fitful doze.

"I did sleep well," she admitted. "But still, you might have risked it."

"No… at least, not this time. But now we know what to do for your insomnia."

"Huh?" She blinked, trying to understand his train of thought. _Skin on skin contact, maybe? That's the only thing—_

"All you needed was to be thoroughly exhausted."

"I—what—Zack, would you please _behave_!?" She smacked his chest with the flat of her palm, wincing as the impact stung her fingers. "What on earth's gotten into you?!"

"Dunno… maybe I'm in a good mood?" He winked, chuckling when she blushed darkly. _I'll bet he is, _she scowled. _You'd be hard-pressed to find an unhappy man in his situation. _

"Why don't you take your 'good mood' and find us some breakfast?" she grumbled, turning over and burying her burning face against the pillow. He laughed again, rolling on top of her and pushing her down into the mattress. She knew from a glance that he wasn't even putting his full weight on her, but it didn't matter. "Stop playing around! You're crushing me!"

"If you can scream, you can breathe." He pressed one last kiss against the back of her skull before getting up properly, letting out a series of strained grunts as he stretched. "How do you ring the kitchen?" he asked, walking around the room. She heard fabric rustling as he scooped up his scattered clothes, putting them on piece by piece as they were collected. "Is there a bell?"

"Use the phone," she muttered, flopping onto her back and trying to ignore the residual twang of her thigh muscles. "You owe me a massage."

"And what for?"

"I'm sore, that's what."

"Ah." She opened one eye as he sat down on the edge of the bed, forehead creasing in an expression she knew to be nervousness. "'Twas good though… wasn't it?" _You're really going to ask that? Then again_, she supposed, _is it that unexpected of a question? _

"Very good," she agreed, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. "You were satisfied too, right?"

"Aye. I am more than satisfied." He bent his head, turning her hand over to kiss her palm. "But now— food." She let him go, arching her back in a cat's stretch as he found the phone and worked out how to call downstairs. Perhaps it was best that there were no guidelines for how to wake up with someone.

Sometimes, being spontaneous paid off just fine.


End file.
